


Some Other Metal Than Earth

by shilo1364



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bodyswap, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Party Games, Spin the Bottle, or maybe more of a mindswap?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364
Summary: Draco Malfoy is bored out of his mind in his eighth year at Hogwarts. After a prank gone wrong, he discovers that Harry's life isn't really that much better than his own. As they try to keep their friends from realizing that they've somehow swapped minds, they find it's easier to spend time together. Becoming friends comes naturally. But are their friends really as fooled as they believe?Complete at 5 chapters; will post a chapter a day all this week as a birthday present to myself.





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> This silly little story is complete at 5 chapters; I'll be posting a chapter every day this week as a birthday present to myself.
> 
> Thanks to [Amahami](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amahami/pseuds/Amahami) and [1236789](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1236789/pseuds/1236789) for beta reading!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com) if you so desire :-)

**Monday**

A fly buzzed around the windows of the new Potions classroom, hurling itself futilely against the glass. Draco found himself wishing he could do the same. _Salazar_ , he was bored. He sighed, propping his head on his hand, fighting to keep his eyelids from drooping. His attention wandered from the lecture again and he found himself watching dust motes dancing in the beams of golden late-afternoon light.

Thank Merlin this was his last class of the day. Staying awake through double Potions right before dinner was turning out to be nigh impossible. Especially on days like this when the sun had heated the room and turned it stifling.

Professor Slughorn’s voice droned on, listing the properties of something-or-other in painfully exhaustive detail. Merlin. The man was worse than Binns. Nearly, anyway. At least Binns could be relied upon to turn a blind eye to the eighth-years’ increasing absences. Draco had been ducking out of History of Magic for weeks now, joining most of his classmates out on the grounds.

Well, not joining, exactly. He usually joined Blaise and Pansy for a walk around the grounds, steadfastly ignoring the Gryffindors as they ran about in their usual madcap fashion or lounged in the sun. Sometimes Daphne tagged along, hauling Theo with her, but Draco was indifferent to their presence. He was only close with Blaise and Pansy, anymore. Greg had chosen to enter an apprenticeship in lieu of returning for eighth year, and Vince…

Draco tried not to think about Vince ~~.~~ ; it hurt too much. There was an empty spot on his left, a bit like a missing tooth, and it was so hard to keep from prodding at it. Vince had brought it on himself, gotten in too far for Draco to pull him out again; but he still felt like he’d failed him.

He sat as far from the fire as possible now, leaving the cozy chairs for the irritatingly fearless Gryffindors. He felt his face pull into the familiar sneer, but he didn’t have the energy to keep up the expression. He felt the smallest flicker of jealousy; he’d loved the crackle and hiss of a cheerful fire, once. But now all he could see in the dancing flames was the fear in Vince’s eyes as he fell, burning, burning…

The other students ignored them, mostly, as they strolled around the lake. It rankled a bit. He could do with some brawling, but no one thought them worth fighting anymore. Not even Potter, who seemed content to run about with the others.

The fly buzzed past his head, avoiding his absent-minded swat and bashing into the other window. Draco tuned back into the lecture for a moment. Salazar. Slughorn was talking about Mugwort, now. He knew all this — they’d learned it years ago. Severus’ slow drawl returned unbidden, overlaying Slughorn’s higher, more nasal tones.

He could just walk out. Grab his things and— But, no. He’d have to cross in front of Slughorn to reach the door, and there was no way the man’s sharp eyes would miss him.

The screech of dozens of chair legs scraping across flagstones jolted Draco from his daze and he jumped. His eyes flitted to the clock — there was still nearly an hour left of class. Was Slughorn letting them out early? Then he noticed that the others were queueing up at the supply cupboard and grinned. Labs had been few and far between under Slughorn’s tutelage. Finally. The chance to have a bit of fun.

Draco absently gathered his supplies, wondering how best to relieve his boredom. He hesitated, hand hovering by the jar of powdered lacewing. Just a pinch would react with the mugwort and cause a decent explosion. He’d seen Finnegan do it a few times. The first by accident, the others… well. Finnegan was an enthusiastic pyromaniac. Draco tried to avoid him, as a rule. It had less to do with his infuriating Gryffindor-ness and more to do with safety.

He gazed at the small jar in his hand, wondering. How best to go about this? The sound of approaching footsteps startled him, and he hurriedly replaced the jar as another student entered the dim cupboard, blinking owlishly behind ridiculous lenses.

Draco felt his lips curl into a slow smirk. Congratulations, Potter, he thought. You just volunteered to make things interesting. He shivered in delicious anticipation, wondering whether to make his meddling known. No — there was always the chance that Granger would stick her over-large nose into it and spoil his fun. He’d just have to content himself with the knowledge that he’d been the one to cause their mishap. Though, knowing Potter, it wasn’t likely that he’d cast the blame on anyone else. History had proved that if there was anything he could blame on Draco he would, with relish.

“Potter,” he said, raising a brow as he eyed the other boy. He looked so tired lately, as if all the fight had drained out of him, leaving him an empty shell. He racked his brains for an insult that would knock Potter out of that stupor. “Granger actually trusts you to get the ingredients?” he asked, shaking his head in mock alarm. “Surely she realizes she’s jeopardizing her grades?”

Potter’s eyes flashed warningly, and Draco tensed in anticipation of finally getting a rise out of him, but the fight drained out of his face as Draco watched. It was wrong. He’d thought he’d be relieved at not being tormented or shunned by Potter this year, but this was just wrong. Potter was supposed to be brimming with rage and fire and passion. Draco felt his stomach turn over with a strange, slow flop, but ignored it. It wasn’t important just now. Potter was important. Sparking Potter’s fire was important.

Potter just shrugged, world-weary and listless, and quietly asked Draco to pass the murtlap. Draco didn’t think. His hand shot out and he snatched the illegibly-labeled bottle of lacewing he’d been eying earlier. He held his breath, hoping Potter wasn’t watching, that he wouldn’t notice the switch.

Potter didn’t look at him, just nodded as he accepted the bottle and moved back toward the light of the classroom.

Draco blinked, watching him walk away. He was a mess of roiling emotions, of frustration at Potter not responding to his taunts, relief at not being punched in the face, anticipation for what was to come. He shivered, letting the anticipation take hold, then grabbed the last jar he needed and hurried back to his seat. He didn’t want to miss the imminent explosion.

“Draco?” Pansy asked warily, as he returned to their desk with the ingredients. “What happened?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

She scooted away from him, the legs of her chair scraping across the flagstones. “Well, whatever it is, don’t get me involved. I’ve not had any detentions yet this term and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Draco shrugged. He didn’t want her help anyway. He wanted the satisfaction of finally getting a rise out of Potter all to himself.

Nothing happened for several minutes. The students measured and mixed, murmuring about the changing appearance of their potions and taking notes. Draco left the majority of brewing to an exasperated Pansy. He was too busy watching Potter adding ingredients to his cauldron.

Potter picked up one of the last jars left on his desk, tipping it over the gently bubbling cauldron. Draco leaned forward, trying to see if it was the lacewing.

“Draco! What on earth are you—”

He waved her off, not taking his eyes from Potter, ignoring her heavy sigh.

It was the lacewing, he was sure of it. The powder was tipping forward, right at the lip of the jar, and—

“Harry!” Granger lunged at him, trying to knock away his hand, but she was too late. Draco stood up abruptly and moved closer, watching in delight as the powder fell into the cauldron, settling for a moment on the sludge-brown surface — wait, Draco thought, feeling an icy finger of dread creep up his spine, it’s not supposed to be that color, is it? — and then they melted into it, spreading a golden lacy layer atop it, and he stared, fascinated. He’d never seen anything quite like it.

And then everything happened at once.

Granger’s grasping hand knocked Harry’s arm. The rest of the lacewing fell into the potion. For a second, nothing happened, and then it sucked inward and erupted with a sickening glop all over Potter and himself.

Granger escaped the muck, tumbling backward into Weasley’s arms, and Draco scowled as he wiped the brown goo from his face. It really wasn’t fair, how all of his schemes ended up backfiring. But even that frustration was familiar and oddly comforting.

Professor Slughorn approached, waving his arms in alarm, and hovered over Potter, turning occasionally to scowl darkly at Draco, then finally bundled them both off to the hospital wing.

Pomfrey listened to his rant, seemingly quietly amused, and then sent Slughorn away and turned to examine him and Potter.

“Well, boys,” she said, after running several tests, “you appear to have escaped harm this time. I feel I really ought to thank you for livening up my afternoon. It’s been duller than a blast-ended skrewt’s love life here lately.”

Draco snorted in amusement, surprised at the wan conspiratorial grin Potter flashed him. It faded quickly, though, leaving Draco feeling oddly empty.

“Come along Potter,” he drawled, “wouldn’t want you to miss dinner on my account. You’re far too thin as it is.”

Potter studied him, an odd expression on his face, and Draco racked his brain for an insult to hurl at him, just to put them back on familiar ground. But his mind had gone curiously blank, and eventually, he turned with a sniff and dramatic whirl of his robes that did little to reassure him as he stalked toward the Great Hall.

Why could Potter still get under his skin like no one else? From the moment they’d met he’d felt like Draco’s personal tormentor. His eyes darted to Potter’s face, quite without his permission. Somehow he’d caught up to Draco, and now they were walking in step, the squeak of Potter’s worn-out trainers mingling with the crisp slap of expensive leather on stone.

Draco grit his teeth. Potter was smiling at him, that lopsided smile that always sent Draco’s stomach into slow flips, though it wasn’t usually directed at him.

Draco pressed his lips together firmly, determined not to smile back. He didn’t know what Potter was doing, but they were not friends, and he wasn’t going to let his guard down that easily. Potter, seemingly reading his mind, shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other, and turned away as the entered the Great Hall, veering toward the Gryffindor table and leaving Draco feeling as if the stones under his feet weren’t quite as solid as they appeared.

“So,” Blaise asked as he sat down, nudging Draco in the ribs. “What happened?”

Draco frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be coy, Draco,” Pansy drawled, “it doesn’t suit you. You and Potter have been gone for ages.” She raised one carefully stenciled brow, and Draco sighed.

“Drop it, Pansy. Nothing happened. Pomfrey just insisted on running as many tests as she could think of.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And, what were the results of your little… experiment?”

Draco shrugged. “Nothing. A bit disappointing, really. I’d hoped for an explosion.”

“From Potter or his cauldron? Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve been itching for a fight with him since we got back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Draco rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness that had been building there, and turned his attention to his food. The only way to shut Pansy up was to ignore her so thoroughly that she gave up. After several minutes of pointedly focusing on his plate, she huffed in annoyance and turned her back to him, joining Blaise and Daphne in some inane conversation Draco had no interest in.

It was like it had never happened — those last, horrible years. They were all pretending so very hard that he thought some of them had started to believe it. He didn’t want to forget it, didn’t think he could. Maybe it was different for them. They hadn’t let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Hadn’t tried to kill Dumbledore. Hadn’t had the sodding Dark Lord living in their home, commandeering their bedroom to house some of his more loyal followers.

As usual, the thought of Greyback and Aunt Bella left Draco’s mouth tasting of ash. He shoved his plate away, suddenly unable to stomach even the thought of food, trying to shove the memories away with it.

“Excuse me,” he said, not caring that he had interrupted Pansy mid-sentence. “I’m not feeling well, after all. Think I’ll go sleep it off.”

“Draco? You don’t look so good — should we take you to the hospital wing?”

He waved her off, needing to get away from the food, the chatter, the overwhelming press of people in the Great Hall. “No. No, I just— I just need to rest, I think.”

He turned, stumbling a little as he hurried out of the room, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed, sneak another sip from the vial he kept under his mattress and let the arms of Dreamless Sleep claim him.


	2. Tuesday

**Tuesday**

Draco woke slowly, drifting out of a pleasant dream of floating somewhere warm, snuggling into sheets that were suddenly far too scratchy beneath his skin. He opened his eyes, scowling, and panicked for a second. Something was wrong with his eyes. He blinked, blearily trying to focus, and scowled as he registered that the (astonishingly blurry) fingers waving in front of his eyes were tanned golden-brown. Potter. It couldn’t be—

He threw back the curtains, fumbling on the table beside his bed for — yes, there they were. He grabbed the unfamiliar glasses and jammed them onto his nose, scowling harder as the room came into focus. He snorted as he took in the overwhelming red in the room. Gryffindors.

They all had their own tiny rooms this year, in the newly repurposed “Eighth-year” tower, so at least he didn’t have to worry about being interrogated by Potter’s gaggle of friends. Still. He glanced around the room again. Everything was draped in red and gold, with discarded Weasley sweaters and school robes tossed haphazardly over the dresser and wadded up on the floor.

Without really thinking about it, Draco started picking them up and gathering them into a neat pile for the house-elves to take and wash. He scowled when he realized what he was doing, but then shrugged. He didn’t know how long he’d be stuck in Potter’s body, but he was going to make damn sure he had clean robes to wear.

Potter.

Draco’s eyes widened. He needed to catch Potter before he gave them away! He quickly shucked off his pajamas, sneering at the violent orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt (though it was admittedly quite comfortable) and stuffed his arms into the sleeves of the first shirt he grabbed out of Potter’s closet. Pants were next, then robes and Draco hurriedly brushed his hair and left the room, knotting his tie about his neck as he went.

He paused in the door to the common room, looking frantically for Potter, and sighed in relief when he saw him. He was standing awkwardly by the fire, looking unsure of where to sit. This wasn’t really that much different than Draco’s normal morning routine, so no one seemed to have noticed.

He squared his shoulders and stalked up to — himself, which was decidedly odd — and said “Po-er-Malfoy!” He winced as it came off more confused than angry, and Granger looked over at them sharply. He rolled his eyes as he met his own gray eyes, clouded with confusion, and reached out to snag Potter’s sleeve, dragging him back toward their rooms. He changed his mind and ducked into the bathroom, checking quickly to make sure it was empty, then spelling the door shut with a hasty Colloportus.

“Malfoy!” Potter whisper-shouted. “Er, Potter. No. Ugh! Whatever.”

Draco sniggered.

Potter sighed, though his lips twitched a bit. “Seriously, Malfoy. What the hell?”

Draco reminded himself that he was supposed to be angry about this… whatever this was. “What the fuck did you put in that potion, Potter? It shouldn’t have done… this!” He waved his hand between their bodies.

“I dunno, Malfoy. Couldn’t make out the label. I think the question we ought to be asking is, what the fuck did you put in my potion, Malfoy?”

“Lacewing. Obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “It was supposed to just make your potion explode.”

Potter looked unimpressed. “Which it did.”

“Well. Yes. But it wasn’t supposed to do this. How was I supposed to know you’d screwed it up yourself?”

Potter arched one of his own pale eyebrows. Draco was surprised at just how much scorn his face could convey. “Really? How many years have we had Potions together, now?”

Draco snorted, amused despite himself. “Fair point, I suppose.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, starting as they brushed the faded lines of the scar. “Right. Well. We have to figure out what you put in, obviously, and why it reacted the way it did. And from there we can hopefully find a way to reverse it.”

“Hopefully?” Potter didn’t sound impressed.

“It’s the best I’ve got.”

“Why don’t we ask—“

“No. No. Not yet, anyway. Salazar, but this is embarrassing. The fewer people know about this, the better.”

“Well…” Potter hesitated. “Fine. What do we do now?”

“We’ll just have to pretend to be one another until we either reverse this or it wears off,” Draco said decisively, pretending to an authority he didn’t feel.

“Right. OK. I suppose I can do that.”

“Indeed. How difficult can it be to be you, Scarface? I mean, you’ve already offed the Dark Lord, so I won’t have to be constantly grappling with heroic death threats.” He put a hand to his forehead and pretended to swoon. “Oh! My heroic scar is burning. I shall have to faint. Heroically.”

Potter snorted. “You know, you’re actually pretty funny when you’re not being mean.”

Draco sobered instantly, feeling heat rise to his neck. “Yes, well. Forgot who I was talking to, is all.”

Potter stared at him, an odd expression on his face. Then he suddenly seemed to take in his appearance.

“What the fuck did you do to my hair, Malfoy? It looks like a hedgehog crawled onto your head and died.”

“What did I do? What in Salazar’s name do you do to tame it as much as you do? I always thought you just rolled out of bed, but…”

“Well… I kinda do. Did.”

“Clearly you still do. Potter, my hair is a work of art. You cannot possibly intend to go about looking like that!.” He snagged the sleeve of his robe again and dragged him toward the mirrors.

“Malfoy! What the hell?”

“Quiet, Potter. Now, where did I —ah. Just stand still, and for Merlin’s sake try to remember what I’m doing so I don’t have to sneak around to fix my own hair every morning.”

Potter watched dubiously as he worked, applying products and styling carefully. “I had no idea how much work it took to make your hair look that fabulous, Malfoy.”

Draco’s hand stilled, and he looked up to meet Potter’s gaze in the mirror. “Did — did you just say my hair was fabulous, Potter? Was that actually a compliment?”

“Shut up.”

Draco watched his own pale face flush and was struck once again by the strangeness of it all. At least his hair was fabulous. He snorted. “Come along, Potter. Before someone sees us.”

They hurried toward the Great Hall, just in time to meet Granger and Weasley on their way out. They’d missed breakfast, then.

“Harry!” Weasley shouted, “There you are! What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?”

Potter looked confused. “Wait. What? Who?”

Granger shot them another odd look. “Malfoy. Harry.” She turned to Draco. “Are you sure you’re OK? He just dragged you off for the entirety of breakfast and— oh, my goodness!” Her eyes widened. “Did he obliviate you? That could get him in serious trouble! We have to tell McGonagall.”

“Hermione!” Draco said, shooting Potter a warning look. “Stop. I’m fine. He just had a question for me, and then I didn’t feel like going to class, so I went for a walk.”

“A walk.”

“Yes?”

“With Malfoy?”

“Er.”

“Come on ‘Mione,” Weasley said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and frowning at them. “We’re gonna be late for Charms.”

“Oh!” She clutched her bag closer and turned to follow him, then hesitated. “You’re sure you’re all right, Harry?” She bit her lip, clearly torn.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, crossing his fingers behind his back and hoping her desire to avoid being late would win out. He sighed a minute later as it did. They’d only put off the conversation, he knew, but at least he’d have some time to think about how he wanted to play this.

* * *

Draco stalked across the eighth year common room, fuming. He grabbed Potter’s arm as he passed and hauled him into the corner, away from the game of exploding snap that was occupying the rest of their year. “Potter! Do you know how many autographs I had to sign today? My hand is going numb. And I was followed around all day by a gaggle of tiny girls. Tiny! First years! How do you do it?”

Potter nodded sagely, snickering. Draco suspected that was only possible because Potter was still wearing Draco’s much more aristocratic features. “That, my friend, is what the invisibility cloak and Marauders Map are for.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Potter,” he grumbled, interested despite himself.

Potter grinned at him. “Nah, you just never asked. Come on — I’ll show you. And I’ll protect you from the ickle firsties.”

“Shut up.”

“This way; they’re in my trunk.” He paused. “Not the first-years, that is. The map and, er, cloak.” He bit his lip.

Draco smirked. “Wasn’t gonna say a word.”

* * *

Draco stared at the blank parchment that lay open on Harry’s palm, unimpressed. “What does that do, then?”

Potter adopted an odd expression that was probably supposed to be mysterious. “Just watch.” He turned to the parchment, pointed his wand at it, and intoned “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Suddenly, a detailed map of the castle unfurled across the parchment, with tiny footprints marching along it, labeled with names.

Draco quickly forgot he was supposed to be irritated. “That is so cool!”

Potter’s serious expression morphed into a conspiratorial grin. “Told you.” he tapped the parchment again. “Mischief managed.” The writing disappeared. “And you’ve not even seen the best part.”

He rummaged through his trunk again, this time coming up with a length of silvery cloth draped over one arm.

“Now you see me,” he swirled the cloak over his shoulders, “now you don’t.”

Draco blinked. Where Potter had just stood was nothing. Empty space. He reached out experimentally.

“Ow. It makes you invisible, Malfoy. Not incorporeal.”

“Hmm. That would be useful. But I can see that these would help you avoid the screaming fans, yes.”

“Yeah, well. Just take care of them. I’m not sure if McGonagall knows I brought those back with me, and I don’t fancy getting them confiscated.”

 


	3. Wednesday

**Wednesday**

Draco slumped down on the couch next to Potter. Thankfully, it was the one furthest from the fire, though he hadn’t actually thought to check ahead of time. He wondered briefly if Potter had trouble with fire too, after their shared fiendfyre incident, but shoved the thought aside. There were far more important things to think about.

“Merlin, Potter,” he exclaimed, swiping one of the cushions Harry had been leaning on, “I had no idea you were so obsessed with me! Your friends spend the entirety of lunch wondering if I was OK because I wasn’t talking about me enough.” He paused, frowning. “That sounded incredibly odd.”

Potter snorted. “Yeah, well, your friends just spent the entire lunch period mocking you.” He affected a passable Pansy impression. “Oh, Draco, darling, what fascinating things do you have to tell us about Potter today? Has he combed his hair? Perhaps he’s wearing that green shirt that brings out his eyes?”

“Shut up,”Draco said, laughing. “She did not.”

“Oh, believe me, she did.”

“It was a tolerable impression, I suppose,” he allowed, considering.

“It was a great impression.”

“It was adequate.”

“Prat.”

“Tosser.”

Draco sat up straight as he caught sight of Pansy and Blaise entering the room. They strolled over to the couch Draco sat on and Pansy drawled, “Why, Blaise, I’ve found Draco — and look. He’s with Potter. How utterly surprising that is.”

Draco collapsed back onto the couch, snickering, as Blaise rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Pans. They’re obviously busy.”  

Potter hit him with a pillow as soon as they were out of hearing range. “Now that you’ve chased away your friends, what shall we do?” he asked. Draco considered, not bothering to glare at Potter for the pillow. He’d get him back for that one later. He chewed his lip for a moment, wondering how Potter would react. “Seekers game?” he offered.

Potter’s eyes lit up. “Now that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time. Race you to the pitch.”

“But Harry—“ Granger said, as they crossed the room to fetch their brooms. She looked up from her frantic scribbling, sticking her quill behind her ear.

“Let him go,” Weasley said, leaning back to look up at her and swiping his thumb across the ink smudge her quill had left on her cheek. “It’s too nice out to study, ‘Mione.”

They grabbed their brooms and hurried out before anyone else could try and stop them.

* * *

“Best of 45?”

“Come on Malfoy, admit it. We’re too evenly matched.” Potter slumped lazily across his broom, wobbling dangerously before he managed to balance himself.

Draco sighed, but nodded, swiping his hand across his forehead and tugging irritably at an unruly curl. “It’s a wonder you can see through this fringe at all, Potter. Haven’t you considered getting it cut?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said lazily. “It grows back overnight. Don’t ask me why. It just always has.” He snorted. “It used to drive Aunt Petunia mad. As if I could grow my hair out on purpose,” he scoffed. “She even had the barber shave it a time or two. Not that it made any difference. Next morning, poof! Same as ever.”

Draco considered this. “I suppose you can be forgiven for having such atrocious hair then. Since there are obviously extenuating circumstances. If shaving it didn’t fix it, then nothing you or I could do would.”

Harry threw back his head and laughed, free and easy as he rested atop his broom. They floated there in silence for a moment as the sky darkened around them and the lights came on in the castle.

“Come on Malfoy. It’s getting late. We’d best head back.”

“In a minute. I’m enjoying this too much to stop now.” He idly tossed the snitch up and caught it a few times.

Potter bit his lip. “We could do this again, you know. It was fun.”

“You’d do that? Spend time with me voluntarily?” Draco stilled, surprised.

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If we’re together, we’re less likely to slip up.”

“Oh. Right.” He squashed down the burgeoning disappointment. Of course Potter didn’t actually want to spend time with him. It was just to cover himself so his friends didn’t suspect anything.

“But I actually _have_ had fun with you, Malfoy,” Potter continued, giving him an odd look. “I’ll spend time with you anyway.” He drifted closer on his broom, knocked knees with Draco, and then extended his hand. “Let’s try this again. Friends?”

Draco clasped his hand and held on as he looked up at him, searching his eyes. “Why didn’t you accept my hand that day, Potter? I’ve been dying to know what I did wrong for years.”

Harry dropped Draco’s hand and scrubbed a hand reflexively through his hair. Draco resisted the urge to tell him to stop messing it up.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the ground. “This is a conversation that deserves solid ground, I think.”

“You mean it’s so weighty it will drag you down?” Draco asked, as they dismounted.

Potter shook his head, leaning against his broom and scuffing the toe of his trainer in the dirt. “Honestly, you reminded me of my cousin. You were bratty and spoiled and you said mean things about Hagrid, who was the first person to ever really be nice to me. Then you insulted my new friend.”

Draco thought about that for a minute. “Oh. In my defense, I was nervous. I hadn’t met anyone my age before without our parents shoving us together. But I suppose I can see why you refused.” He grabbed Potter’s hand and gave it a determined shake. “Friends.”

Potter grinned at him. “In that case, I think we need to drink on it. Come on.”

“You have alcohol back at the dorm?” Draco asked, scandalized. “In my room?”

Potter laughed. “Hardly. With McGonagall in charge? No, I was thinking hot chocolate. We can go to the kitchens and wheedle it out of Dobby. Race you?”

“Oh, you’re on, Potter.”


	4. Thursday

**Thursday**

The bell rang, announcing the end of Defense. Draco stuffed his things into his bag and hurried to Potter’s side. “I’m so horribly bored,” Draco moaned as they started down the hall toward Charms. “Po— I mean, uh, Malfoy.”

“Er. Yeah. Uh, Potter?”

Draco snorted. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Did you actually have something you wanted to say?”

“Hmm? Oh! Yeah. Skip class with me.” Draco put on his best pleading expression, though he didn’t know if it would work on Potter’s face.

Apparently, it didn’t, because Potter still looked perplexed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Come on! We’ve double Potions after lunch. And History of Magic. You can’t expect to actually learn anything. And Granger will give you — er, me — her notes later, anyway. C’mon. Please?”

“Well, I mean, I kind of have to now that you’ve said please. That’s serious,” Potter said, trying and failing to hide a smile.

“Shut up. It’ll be fun. We’ll grab some food from the kitchen—“ He broke off, frowning. “And how did I not know about that fabulous resource? Why don’t they teach Slytherins to tickle the pear, anyway?”

Potter snorted, wrinkling his face into an expression that looked horribly plebeian on Draco’s aristocratic features. Draco ignored it.

“Anyway, we can use the cloak to sneak out. There’s a clearing in the forest perfect for a picnic. No one will miss us — we can take our brooms, stay out ’til dark. Later, if we feel like it.”

Slughorn brushed past them, then did a double-take. “Hello there, Harry! And, Malfoy, what a surprise. You boys ready for Potions? We’re reducing flobberworm pus this afternoon.” He rubbed his hands together. “A thankless task, but necessary to make a base for next week’s potions. I’m sure you’re as excited as I am, Harry my boy.”

He wandered off, muttering to himself, and Potter grimaced. “You know what? Skipping class sounds fabulous. Let’s go.”

“What, now?” Draco looked at the door to the charms classroom, startled.

“You really want to go to charms? We’ll get Ron to tell Flitwick we’re not feeling well. Then Slughorn won’t be expecting us.”

Draco snagged Weasley’s sleeve and repeated Potter’s request. Granger made as if to protest, but Weasley shot her a quelling look. “Of course, Harry. You just go and rest, mate. We’ll handle Flitwick.”

* * *

Draco sighed happily and trailed a hand through the stream, rinsing the sticky treacle tart residue from his fingers. “This is quite possibly the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Harry snorted. “You mean it’s the only good idea you’ve ever had?”

“Shut up, you.” Draco closed his eyes and leaned back in the grass, too lazy to bother sniping at Potter. It was peaceful in their little clearing. The birds were chirping in the trees above them, the leaves rustled in a gentle breeze, and the sun shone down cheerfully.

“You know,” Potter said thoughtfully, “I understand, now, why you made the choices you did in the war. I’m not saying you couldn’t have made better choices, mind,” he added, levering himself up on one elbow, “but I understand.”

Draco sighed. He hadn’t wanted to get into this today, but now that Potter had brought it up, he supposed he might as well.

“Yeah, well. I was stupid.” Potter flashed him an amused smirk, and Draco threw a tiny pinecone at him. “Anyway, what I was going to say is that I understand now why you were so loyal to them — the Weasleys, Hagrid, even Dumbledore.” He made a face. “And why you hated Snape. He was rather hard on you. It was just so refreshing to see someone not falling all over themselves to make you happy.”

Potter nodded, cracking one eye open to study Draco for a moment, and then flopping back down in the grass. “Well, then,” he said, and Draco thought that was the end of it, but Potter apparently had other ideas. He fished around inside his robe for a moment and then drew out a wand with a flourish.

For just a second, Draco panicked, but then Potter was holding it out to him, and he recognized it as his old wand. The one Potter had taken, during the war. He reached out a tentative hand to take it, and for just an instant their fingers were both touching it, and it felt… strange. Then Potter pulled his hand back, looking surprised, as if he maybe had felt it too, and Draco stared down at his wand as it throbbed gently in his hand. It felt so familiar and right, and yet different, as if being in Potter’s possession  had somehow changed it.

Draco shook his head to clear it of the troubling thoughts.

“Have you been carrying this around all this time?”

Potter scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I mean… yes? Sort of? I meant to give it back to you at the start of term, but I just couldn’t find the right time. I grabbed it out of my trunk when I was showing you the map and cloak the other day. I’ve been carrying it around since then.”

Draco considered this for a moment, then nodded. It was something the Potter he’d come to know over the past few days would definitely do. He squinted up at the setting sun, deciding it wasn’t really important. “Fancy a race?”

* * *

It was well after dark when they finally made their way back to the castle. They’d packed enough food and snacks to last them the entire day, and they’d conjured lights so they could see to eat, laze by the stream, hang upside down from the trees, and otherwise have the best day Draco could remember having in years.

They hurried up the castle steps, huddled together under the invisibility cloak. Potter stopped just inside the doors to pull out the map. Draco whispered a hasty lumos. There was no-one in the immediate vicinity, so they made their way up the stairs toward the eighth-year dorm.

“Ahem.”

A quiet cough startled them both, and Draco dropped his wand. It rolled out from under the cloak, tip still glowing faintly. Potter sighed and stuffed the map back into his pocket.

He whipped the cloak off of them and Draco stared up into the startled eyes of Professor McGonagall.

“Um,” he said when Potter pinched him. “Hi, Professor. We were just—“

“Just going to your rooms, I hope,” she said sternly, “as it is well after curfew.” Then she smiled at him. “Though I must commend you for this astonishing display of interhouse unity. Now. Off with you. To bed, if you please.”

Draco retrieved his wand and they continued toward the common room entrance, neither of them daring to speak; McGonagall watched them the whole way.

“Well, um, night, Potter,” Draco said, once the door had closed behind them. He smiled. “That was fun. Thanks for—“

“Harry!” Granger interrupted, popping up from one of the chairs by the fire. “Oh, Harry, we were so worried about you! He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Weasley clapped Draco on the shoulder. “Nah, ‘Mione, He’s fine, see?”

Draco nodded. “Um. Yep. That’s me. Fine. I’m uh, just going to go to bed now. Worn out, you know.”

Potter snickered behind him as Draco was propelled toward his room by Weasley and Granger peppered him with a million questions interspersed with all the fascinating things he’d missed in class that day.

He finally managed to shake them off and flopped onto his bed with a tired sigh. Being Potter was exhausting.


	5. Friday

**Friday**

Draco was about to get Potter’s attention the next morning at breakfast and suggest they skip class again, but McGonagall caught his eye and raised a brow and his courage failed. Their classes weren’t all terrible on Fridays, anyway, he thought. Especially since McGonagall had allowed the eighth-years to take Friday afternoons as free periods. Some, like Granger, had chosen to work on independent study projects, but most students took the time to relax and catch up on coursework.

He sank back into his seat and tried to ignore Granger and Weasley’s disgusting courtship rituals as he hurried to finish his breakfast. He wanted to catch Potter before class and make plans for the afternoon.

* * *

They tumbled back into the eighth-year common room that evening, windblown and exhausted, after several games of pick-up quidditch. Weasley collapsed beside Granger, who pursed her lips and shifted her books and scrolls onto the floor. Some of the others started a game of exploding snap, but Draco was far too tired for that. He turned toward the sofa he’d come to think of as theirs, grabbing Potter’s sleeve and tugging him along.

They were laughing, jostling one another as they dissected the game, when Granger shouted “Harry! Malfoy!”

Draco glanced over at her to see that all the eighth-years had migrated over to the center of the room and were now sitting in a near-approximation of a circle. “Yes, Granger?” he called back, suspiciously.

“Get over here, you great git!” Ron shouted. We need everyone for this.

“You need everyone for what, exactly?” Harry asked, sounding as suspicious as Draco felt. He stood up anyway, making his way toward the others and dragging Draco with him.

“Sit.” Granger instructed, and Potter obediently sat, so Draco did, too. He looked around warily, noted the butterbeer bottle lying on its side in the center of the circle, and groaned.

“I am not playing spin the bottle,” he said, grimacing and making to stand. When he tried to walk away from the circle, however, he found his shoes seemingly stuck to the floor.

“Hermione…” he said warily. “Why can’t I leave the circle?”

“Ah,” she said, looking defiantly back at him. “That would be because I charmed the circle. You have to play at least one round before you can leave. Or, well, you _can_ leave, certainly, but it won’t be, um, entirely pleasant. It’s a mild coercion spell I found the other day and thought quite handy.”

Draco sighed. “Let me guess. You found it in the restricted section?”

“Well,” Hermione hedged, looking shifty.

Potter looked ill. Draco sighed and sank back down onto the floor. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

Hermione handed him the bottle. “Your turn, Harry.”

“Why do I have to go first?”

“Because you do,” she said firmly. “Anyway, look at it this way: as soon as you kiss someone, you can leave.”

“Fine,” Draco said flatly, setting the bottle spinning far too vigorously. He anxiously watched its progress around the circle, growing dizzy as it went round and round. He regretted using so much force and prolonging the stupid torture; his hands grew clammy and he wiped them distractedly on his pants.

The bottle slowed gradually and eventually came to rest on… Potter. Of course it did.

For a moment he and Potter just stared at one another, and then Potter leaned toward him, and suddenly they were kissing. Draco had no idea how that had come about exactly, and he hurriedly closed his eyes because it was a bit like kissing a mirror, which was really not a thought he wanted to dwell on. Potter’s lips were warm and soft against his, and he didn’t really care which lips were whose so long as they continued to be pressed against one another. It was the best feeling in the world, he thought fuzzily.

He broke away a moment later to catch his breath and was momentarily disoriented to see green eyes blinking back at him. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he exclaimed, once he realized what had happened. “I’ve not got that hideous hair anymore — Potter, how do you stand it?”

The common room suddenly echoed with the combined laughter of all the eighth years.

“Oh, Salazar, Draco, your face!” Pansy exclaimed.

He frowned around at all of them. They were taking it rather better than he’d expected, all things considered.

Weasley nodded sagely as Pansy collapsed onto the couch beside him, giggling.

“Swapped bodies, did you?” Weasley said. “You really need to stop sabotaging his potions, Malfoy. It’s been years. It’s getting old.”

Draco opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

“I almost gave it away so many times,” Weasley continued, chuckling. “‘Mione worked out how to reverse it on Tuesday, but it took us ages to figure out how to get you two stubborn gits to kiss.”

“Draco,” Pansy said, hardly able to get the words out around the giggles, “did you really not know? We all guessed ages ago. You’re really not very subtle at all, you know, either of you. It was so hard to pretend we hadn’t guessed, but it was too much fun to watch you blunder along.”

Draco tried to be irritated, but his lips curved up despite himself.

“Yes, well,” he said finally. “How else was I supposed to get his attention, Weasel?”

He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t gone too far. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Weasley to explode, but he finally huffed out a quiet laugh instead.

“You could have talked to him like a normal person, for starters. Ferret.”

Draco grinned at him, and Weasley grinned back, and the room seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief.

“So, Malfoy,” Weasley said. “You’re not so bad, now that I’ve been hanging around you for a week. Fancy a game of chess?”

“Oh, you’re on, Weasley,” Draco said cheerfully.

It ended up turning into a very strange spectator sport, with Granger and Potter cheering on Weasley, and Pansy and Blaise cheering on Draco, and everyone trying to outdo everyone else. Draco had to admit that Weasley was a fantastic opponent, and he grinned again as he checkmated Weasley’s king after a grueling hour of play.

“Salazar,” he exclaimed, “that was the best game of chess I think I’ve ever played. Where have you been all my life, Weasley?”

Weasley quirked a brow and swept out a hand. “Right here, Malfoy. By Potter’s side.”

“Ah,” Draco said, “that’s why I never realized. Potter’s head is far too big, and he can't play chess for shit.”

“Hey!” Potter exclaimed. “I’m not that bad.”

Weasley sniggered. “You are, mate. You really are.”

Draco stood up and slung an arm over Potter’s shoulder. “That’s all right, Potter. You have… other talents.” He smirked at the slightly queasy look on Weasley’s face.

“Right, that’s it,” Weasley said, standing up quickly. “Come on ‘Mione. They’re about to start snogging, and I want to be far away when it happens. Or at least so busy snogging you that I can’t think about it.”

She swatted at him fondly. “Come on, then. There’s a comfy couch over here by the fire with our name on it.”

“You know,” Pansy said conversationally as they walked away, “I do believe Weasley has the right idea. Come along Blaise. Let’s go find somewhere else to sit.”

“Do I get a snog, too?” he asked hopefully.

“I’ll think about it,” she allowed.

Draco caught Potter’s eye and grinned.

“Come along, Potter. I believe we have been instructed to go and snog one another senseless.”

“Hey!” Weasley shouted. “That’s not what I said!”

Draco threw back his head and laughed, then dragged Harry back to their couch.

For the first time in his life, things had gone -- well, all right, not according to plan, exactly, but they’d worked out well in the end. _Best plan ever_ , he thought fuzzily, and then he let himself stop thinking at all.

 

~The End~


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